


Sacred

by Reminscees



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reminscees/pseuds/Reminscees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let me start at the beginning.</p><p>The way I see it, everyone gets a miracle—You know, every man gets his wish, and all those stupid sayings and stories, like kids with cancer going to Disneyland or old people skydiving. With all those millions of miracles, you’d think I’d get mine, too—My miracle was that I failed shop."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred

_Let me start at the beginning_.

The way I see it, everyone gets a miracle—You know, every man gets his wish, and all those stupid sayings and stories, like kids with cancer going to Disneyland or old people skydiving. With all those millions of miracles, you’d think I’d get mine, too—My miracle was that I failed shop.

‘Why, Alfred,’ You might think, ‘Why is _your_ miracle simply _not_ being good woodworking?’

‘Well,’ I’d answer, ‘You’d be surprised at how things turned out in the end. I turned out alright in the end, too.’

See, I failed shop. I had straight A’s in everything else, I had my bags packed for some fancy college and I was saying goodbye to Mattie and all that bamboozle. I never liked shop, anyway, so it wasn’t a surprise to me, but boy—It was a surprise for my mom and dad. I couldn’t attend my first choice of uni after that. The grades weren’t enough. And maybe that was okay—I don’t think a designated failure at the supreme arts of Mr. Loonis’ shop class would have fit it at John Hopkins’.

In my head, astronauts didn’t need shop. John Hopkins’ probably thought the same.

My parents, unfortunately, did not.

I unpacked those boxes.

I stayed home another year. I reapplied.

I got into Oxford.

I flew there in August.

‘This isn’t so bad,’ My mother said when I opened the door to my dorm, ‘You’ll do fine, honey. You sure you don’t want to study medicine like your father? You’d be a fine neurosurgeon, too. It’s very respectable—’

She said something else after that, too. I dropped by bags, loudly, and with a slight sense of aggression.

Turns out, my miracle was different.

Out of all the possibilities in this city, out of all the dorms available, my miracle was that I ended up sharing my dorm with Arthur Kirkland.


End file.
